The goal this time was worthy of his best efforts. Last month he had snatched victory from what had seemed sure defeat, by swinging the all-important New York State to the Republicans. These were now joyfully engaged in thumbing their noses at the furious Federalists, who screamed to the heavens of cheating and foul play.

Now, however, a bigger battle loomed. He and Mr. Jefferson were Republican candidates for the Presidency, and one of them was certain to win. The wily and astute Mr. Hamilton had for once faltered, and the Federalist Party had bogged down into a welter of contending factions. Let them floun der, and a blessing on them! They would never pull themselves together in time to produce a candidate worth a pinch of snuff.

To be sure, the majority of Republicans seemed to take it for granted that Jefferson should be President and Aaron grateful for the small potatoes of the Vice-Presidency. But matters might far better be the other way around—far better.

That lanky, shock-haired dolt of a Jefferson had already been Vice-President for four years. He might well continue in that placid rôle. As it was, he spent most of his time at Monticello, sitting on his backside and philosophizing, or puttering with his idiotic mechanical contrivances, or, worse yet, tending his collection of birds.

Pshaw! thought Aaron, with an inward snort, though not a quiver showed upon his courteously attentive face as he listened to one of Matthew Davis's long-winded stories. John Adams had made muddle enough of his office, too stupid even to recognize that the people loathed his royalist bias. This was no time to elect another visionary. The country needed a man of action, a leader. It should have one!

Precisely as Davis's droning voice ceased, Aaron broke into mellow, appreciative chuckles. 'Oh, very droll, my dear Davis. Indeed, I have always said that you have a most ready wit!'

Davis beamed, adjusted his coat collar, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his pantaloons, glancing triumphantly around the company. They were a set of clods and never appreciated the subtleties of his discourse as Colonel Burr always did.

A newcomer, rough-clothed in homespun, a week-old beard blackening his foxy jaws, pushed his way to Aaron's table.

Aaron hailed him warmly. 'Welcome, Garson. Very wel come. I've been expecting you these three days'. He beckoned to the landlord, who bustled up, wiping his hands on his spotted apron.

'A noggin of rum for Mr. Garson, Brom, and one of your finest beefsteak and oyster pasties. He is just back from the Carolinas, and must be in need of Christian food.'

Garson laughed. 'The Colonel is right, as always. Though they eat well enough in the great houses, I had no taste of it. Nothing but salt pork and com pone, until my stomach crawled. For I stuck close to the taverns and settlers' cabins as you ordered.'